


Forty Yards

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, I KNOW WHO'S IN IT SOUNDS WEIRD, Liverpool F.C., M/M, but it's basically Liverpool so fret not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 03:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6140300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You think: not a red. You'll show them what red really is, what they'd get if they cut you open and you bled; loyalty and pride and a city that sings. You'll show him, you'll stretch your arms out and smash your badge when your shot will dance past him and into the back of his net.</p><p>Two years later, sixteen minutes and GERRARD - 8 gleaming under the Anfield lights, you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forty Yards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHAZZZZZZ  
> Have your fave and cameo from your trash fave <3  
> *** This is Liverpool w. a side helping of Gerlonso ***
> 
> Alternative title: Five Questions Steven Gerrard Asks Gary Neville

 

_Steve Gerrard, Gerrard_

_He’ll pass the ball forty yards_

_He’s big and he’s fucking hard_

_Steve Gerrard, Gerrard …_

 

**i.**

You're pretty sure he doesn't hear you, the first one.

You're stood with three thousand away fans, face in your hands, staring through your fingers in disbelief at what the little blonde sod's just gone and done. It's slipped from _the goal was scored by number ten, Michael Owen_ in three minutes to a stadium that bellows the name of its team over and over and over again. A bunch of shirts the wrong shade of red huddle at the far end of the pitch, but your eyes are drawn to the one that's broken away and is running towards you.

His arms are outstretched, so much joy written into him that it hits you seventy rows up and you want nothing more than to hit him back. He comes to a stop in front of the away end and smashes the badge on his chest like it's the best fucking thing in the world. You think you might be sick.

The barrage of abuse that's been hurled at him for the last ninety minutes intensifies and you join in, touching your own hand to the liverbird on your chest, daring him to disagree. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" you yell at him, and maybe he does hear after all, because he turns his back on you to flash G. NEVILLE - 2 as he jogs back to restart the game. Your hand stays on the crest through the last minute, though logic tells you it's not going to happen. You think, if those Manc bastards can do it, so can we. Your hand doesn't move even when you don't.

His chant follows you as you slip out of the ground and onto the team bus, triumph and arrogance: is a red, hates Scousers. Carra next to you looks distraught. "Wasn't s'posed," he says, not needing to complete the sentence.

You lean into him, shoulder touching shoulder, and think: not a red. You'll show them what red really is, what they'd get if they cut you open and you bled; loyalty and pride and a city that sings. You'll show him, you'll stretch your arms out and smash your badge when your shot will dance past him and into the back of his net.

 

Two years later, sixteen minutes and GERRARD - 8 gleaming under the Anfield lights, you do.

 

**ii.**

It wasn't as noticeable when you lost in November, just a few months after. Maybe (you wouldn't know) it's easier when it's just happened, maybe it spurred him on to show that he could still be something alone. They came to Liverpool and swept off victors, and you hated him as much as you ever did.

Today, you notice. Fletcher isn't a winger by any stretch of the imagination, and you watch him get more and more frustrated, passing a ball to a target who isn't there, legs too sluggish to race into position. You seize your chance in the second half, steaming into the box and waiting for him to tiredly hack you to the ground. The grass he grew up on is cold under your skin.

Danny takes the penalty, slots it past Howard easy as you like, and you throw your hands into the air. You look at the fans in the corner you once sat and pump your fist, the smile on your face broader than anything any other club could have offered. Who the fuck are Man United? It's Manchester and it's raining your red.

Amidst the euphoria you glance at your benefactor. His hands are on his hips and his head is tilted to the side, looking for some reason at the empty stretch of field down his side of the pitch. You think it's weird to see him not yelling, and then you think you know why.

It's only by chance that you bump into him later, both of you showered and changed and wearing similar ties. His eyes have still got the faraway look to them, a cross between trying to remember and trying to forget.

On impulse, and because you figure neither of you could probably hate each other any more, you ask, "what was it like?"

He starts and blinks, swiveling to half-face you, although he doesn't meet your gaze. You note with some surprise that he doesn't look angry, just lost. Maybe Beckham took more than just overlapping runs when he left.

"It's - "

He realises his mistake, coughs to cover it up.

"It was - "

Suddenly he looks so tired and old that you almost (almost) feel sorry for him. This is the first time you've seen him walk out alone. When the words fail to come, he turns to look back at Old Trafford, a shadow falling over the faint smile that flits across his face.

"Maybe one day you'll find out."

 

 

You find out when you meet a Spanish boy called Xabier.

 

 

You find out the moment he pings a pass across the Melwood field. It's not an amazing pass, just a short one that lands at your feet, and anyone could've done that; as insignificant as the number fourteen used to be. You pick it up, duck round Riise and cut it back without looking, wondering if he'll see what you're trying to do. The ball blasting into the roof of the small training net is answer enough.

It's -

Telepathy. Gloves on hands. Poetry in motion. Doing his running for him. The glossy shine on still water. Feeling the weight of the ball as it drops. A scoreboard in the sky, a Turkish city bathed in blood, the promise of his lips against yours.

 

**iii.**

England's worst defeat in twenty-five years, and you troop off the field when your tired number goes up. You sit next to him on the bench without a word, watching Rooney poke in a consolation. Your ex-David lets in four goals, his pulls dejectedly at the armband.

On the bus back to the hotel, you catch Beckham in the aisle and whisper if you can swap seats for a while. He raises an eyebrow at you but makes his way to sit besides Carra nevertheless. Carra pulls a face.

He does a bit of a double take when you sit down, but shrugs; you think he knows why you're there. It's all over the papers, anyway.

Fuck, this made so much more sense when you talked to Carra about doing it. You smooth out the creases in your trousers and wait for the question to ask itself, or for him to say something. 'Gerrard, you're a fucking idiot.' 'It's your fucking club.' Anything at all, and you'll go back and save Carra from having to act posh.

Nothing's forthcoming, so you clear your throat and ask the only way you can. "When did you first - know?"

You don't have to say anything else. He leans against the window, tilts his head to look back at you. "My first matchday," he says, offering a conspiratorial smile only little boys and their clubs could offer each other. "I must've been all of four years old. You probably weren't born yet. Can't remember who we played, or who played. It was the K-Stand, though. Always the K-Stand."

He tugs unconsciously at the strip of the training jacket he's wearing. You realise you've never seen him without red.

"My dad would bunk off with his mates and I'd climb up the stairs and just sit there by myself. There was never anyone there, because I'd want to go early. Just sitting that first time, in that great ground, the green pitch. I don't know what it was, but that was all I needed."

His smile softens and he looks out of the window, knowing you're not in the bus anymore.

 

(This is where you are:

Anfield, 1987, the Kemlyn road stand. Fifteen minutes to kickoff, and the players walk onto the pitch. Their shirts are red and you've never seen anything so beautiful. The stands are red and you've never seen anything so beautiful. The crowd begins to sing.

Dad's taught you all the words. You can feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise with the chorus, and you swallow hard to keep your heart from bursting. _You'll never_ \- you'll never hear anything like it. You lift your eyes to take in the stadium around you, and it's as if you know all of them.

You remember Barnes playing, his name the one you get on your very first kit that Dad gladly buys, the one you're wearing then. He's elegance personified; he beats two defenders like a breath of air and thunders it into the net. They sing his name. He scores again six minutes later, not giving anyone the time to sit down. You're screaming so much you think you won't have a voice left tomorrow. They're singing his name.

When the final whistle goes and Liverpool run out 4-0 winners Dad takes your hand and holds it. Time to go home, son, he says. You look around, seven years old with hope in your heart, and you think, but I am.)

 

He says, "did that answer your question?"

This is where you are: twenty five years old, never won the league, Chelsea's £32 million offer sitting on your table. You look at him, slightly resentful. "It's simpler for you." You wonder where he puts it all.

He bursts into a short, sharp laugh that startles you. "God, Liverpool fans. Give them a couple of years and they get bitter." He stops laughing at the sight of your face and explains, "I signed for United in the eighties. Not easy, maybe. Still the simplest decision I ever made."

"But - "

"Look, Gerrard." He twitches his nose. "I think it's pretty clear. But if glory's what you want, why not come over?"  
  
"What?"

"The boss likes you. Come play for United."

"Fuck off."

The words are out of your mouth even before you can think, even before you know what they mean. He gives you a small, triumphant nod, as if that's all of the answer you need.

  
  
  
  
**iv.  
**

**  
** Xabi tells you first, but then, Xabi tells you everything first.

It's late and you're the last two in the dressing room, as always. You're wondering what to have for dinner and whether Xabi wants a lift back. Xabi clears his throat and says, "Steven."

You take it very well. At least, you pretend to take it very well, force a smile and a congratulations and a so when are you leaving? Is it sunnier over there? White's a nice colour, innit? Of course he sees right through you. "Steven," he says again, amused, sad, everything in between.

You stop your pacing and sit down, looking up at him. He is stern and soft-edged and (used to be) yours.

"Don't," you say.

He makes a noise that sounds like regret. "I would have liked to stay."

"Then stay. Fuck Rafa and stay."

 _For me_ , you don't add, not that you had to anyway. He crosses the distance between you (nine hundred miles) and puts a hand to your cheek. It's warm and already you miss it. _L is for Liverpool_ and _L is for Love_ and _L is for Losing_. This is not about Liverpool, or Rafa, or you.

"August. Yes, it's sunnier there. And not white, Steven. Never white."

You know what he's trying to tell you and you choose to ignore it. "Yeah, well, I don't think they let you play naked," you say instead, laughing it off. He bites his lip and doesn't reply.

 

Xabi's flight is 9 am on a breezy August morning. You do not go.

Xabi holds his new shirt up as news cameras flash around him. You do not watch.

 

You're slightly drunk when you scroll down your contacts list (upwards, past the Xs) and find what you're looking for. The colours flash before your eyes as you dial, red white red white red.

He picks up on the third ring. In a weird way you're grateful for his ridiculous efficiency.

"Thought you might call," he says.

"Fuck off." Most of your conversations involve this phrase. He laughs.

"Hang up, then, you knob."

"Needed to ask."

 There's a pause. "Go on."

You're quiet for a while, losing yourself in the curve of Xabi's smirk, his instep, that penalty rebound. You wonder if he's thinking the same, this phone call triggering six years ago. You wonder if Madrid made him an offer too, and know what he would've said - that people shouldn't matter when colours were there.

"How do they say goodbye in Madrid?"

"Fucking hell. You call me past my bedtime to ask me that."

"It's ten thirty, Neville."

"Yeah, well. Season starts next week." He sighs and you can imagine him rubbing the back of his neck. "Whatever I say isn't going to help, Steve."

You ask again, "how do they say goodbye in Madrid?"

He's quiet for a while. Red, white, red. Then he says gently, "they don't."

 

  
  
**v.**

You are Steven Gerrard, Liverpool's number eight, Liverpool's captain, Liverpool's son.

It's been three months and fourteen days. It's been more than that, really; it's been twenty seven years in the making, stepping out onto the grass every week and praying that this dream would never have to end. You look down at the red shirt you wear and think of how red Istanbul was, more red than it had ever been and would ever be.

You are Steven Gerrard, and you are scared.

It's as if you're a gangly teenager again, having to call Jamie to get you down to the England dining room in one piece without bursting from terror. Hardly any of the lads are talking and you look at them desperately, hoping for someone to crack a joke, a laugh. It feels like they're trying to pay their respects, and you want to yell at them fuck's sake, lads, I'm not _dying_. But that's not strictly true.

You slip out of the room before the game starts, dressed in your kit, wandering the off-white hallways of where you grew up (what you call home). You wonder what you're going to miss the most; the walk down Walton Breck Road, the golden gleam of the gates that you can draw from memory. Some of it's already gone. You think of Carra, boy from Bootle, and how soon there'll be no one left.

There's a turn in the corridor and you follow it, coming to a stop when you see him. He glances up from adjusting his tie, a brief look of surprise followed by something harder to read. Deeper. A fucking Manc in Anfield, you think, like it's a personal affront. Four-one, you think, to salvage it. You can't remember if he played in that game, but that's just technicality and it doesn't matter; not when he is - was - Manchester United.

(Not when you are - were - Liverpool.)

"Commentary," he says, seeing the look on your face.

"Ah."

"Taking a breather. Well, they made me take a breather. I was yelling too much again. You'd know."

That makes you smile, despite yourself. One more thing you're going to miss: L.A. doesn't have an M62.

"Anyway, have a good time out there. I'll try not to sound too happy when Palace win."

"Fuck off."

He raises his hands in surrender and backs away. "All right. Won't ruin it for you. This is your special day, after all." He says it like he's joking, but somehow you know otherwise, and you know why.

"N - Gary."

He turns around, his face comically judgmental. "What, just because your best mate calls me that now means you call me that too? I don't think you'd want to know what Scholesy calls you - "

"Hear me out. Just this one last thing."

The one thing you're going to miss most is also the one thing that makes you the most scared. You're not retiring, see. You're leaving. And sometimes things that leave begin to fade (you can't remember the last time you talked to Michael). One day there'll be a new Scouse lad who wins their hearts. One day they'll realise that the heartbreak wasn't as painful as they'd thought it was. Not superhuman. Not irreplaceable. Not _there'll never be another one like him_ . That's what you do, isn't it? _Walk on -_

"Do they forget?"

Football is not sentimental. Football is fickle. Football means making one mistake and having to watch two decades of service being thrown out the window. You feel naked without the liverbird to wrap you in its wings.

He exhales, and it's the first time you notice his eyes are brown (you don't know why you'd always expected it to be another colour). Instinctively you follow his gaze as it sweeps across the hallway. The stands must be filling up by now.

"I will see your question, Gerrard, and raise you two. Please don't hit me for asking them. Philip doesn't need any more reasons to claim the better-looking brother title."

You snort. "I won't."

"First question. Do they still remember Alonso?"

It's not what you were expecting and your mouth falls open a little, ready to sputter indignant accusations of what the fuck are you playing at. But before the words comes a memory: March, the same place, the stadium roaring _Xabi_ , clapping him off the pitch as if six years meant nothing. Every month a new article appears in a fanzine somewhere around the world, begging him to come home. You think you know what the second question will be.

"Do you?"

Your throat is as dry as the beaches of San Sebastian.

  


You are Steven Gerrard, and you finally understand how simple everything is.

It's nearing kickoff time and you're stood in the tunnel, everyone else already outside waiting for you, lined up in two neat little rows, red and yellow (not quite golden). Someone with a microphone is talking, about growing up as a red and dreaming of playing in front of the Kop. An involuntary shiver courses down your spine at the words 'your captain'. The stage is set, the curtains rise. All you have to do is walk.

 

There are many things you won't ever forget about Liverpool. Barnes's two goals and your Dad's hand. The taste of the Champions' League trophy (and of other things). The first time you walked out here, and now -

You walk some ways across the field, putting Lourdes down to applaud the fans you've given everything for. This is about them, not you, has always been. You see that sign, Make Us Dream (you hope you did). From the corner of your eye, you catch Carra and Jamie standing by the side with microphones in their hands. Memories you didn't even know you had come crashing back and you grin at them. Carra mouths 'ya beauty' and you choke back a laugh.

Yes, you think, lifting your eyes to take in the stadium around you. Ya beauty.

You have to swallow hard to keep your heart from bursting. Every seat filled, banners waving in the crisp north air, mosaics spelling who you are out in the simplest of terms (CAPTAIN, SG8). A wave of colour and noise. This is why it's called a home fixture. This is why it's called home. You wish you could take this with you, this (is) Anfield, all the red shirts glittering in the sun, the love on their faces more real than all you've ever known. You've never seen anything so beautiful.

Twenty-seven years, seven hundred and ten games, one hundred and eighty six goals, eleven trophies, 28 in your debut against Rovers, 8 now seared into your back for the rest of your life, twelve seasons of wearing this armband, forty thousand fans crammed into L4 0TH, one colour, and it all comes down to this:

 

They sing your name.

  


  


They're singing your name.

  


 

 

 

 _you leave a legend, you'll return a hero._  
_the city of Liverpool is always with you._

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. *puts on history nerd glasses* *takes out stack of material* LET ME TELL YOU ALL ABOUT MY RESEARCH  
> 2\. The games/dates are:  
> i. United 2-1 Liverpool, 24 Jan 1999 (the little blonde sod is Solskjaer) / Liverpool 2-0 United, 31 Mar 2001  
> ii. Liverpool 1-0 United, 24 Apr 2004 (Gaz did give away the penalty on Stevie)  
> iii. Denmark 4-1 England, 2005* / Liverpool 4-0 QPR, 17 Oct 1987 (Barnes scored in '79 and '85)  
> iv. first week of August, 2009  
> v. Palace 3-1 Liverpool, 16 May 2015  
> *The actual game was 17 August, but I pushed it up to July-ish to fit with the transfer stuff  
> 3\. Gerrard doesn't actually get #8 until 2004/05, but let's pretend :>  
> 4\. Becks left United summer of 2003  
> 5\. Stevie's ex-David is David James. Gaz's ex-David is me sobbing.  
> 6\. Gaz did first go when he was four and always sat in the K-Stand. I trawled through three! Steven Gerrard! Books! //cleanses// but he doesn't mention when his first time is, although he does fanboy about Barnes. The Kemlyn Road Stand was renamed the Centenary Stand in 1992.  
> 7\. Both of them mention Gaz's tapping up of Stevie, though Gaz says it happened in Euro 2004 *ignores* Gaz also says that Stevie replied 'I'll do it if you come to Anfield', which I thought nicely summed up the both of them.  
> 8\. Ten thirty is wayyyyy past Gary Neville's bedtime  
> 9\. I don't actually know what colour the corridors of Anfield are ;-; also Gaz didn't do that game - he was probably doing United's? - but o well  
> 10\. The M62 is the highway between Liverpool and Manchester and am I basically saying the MLS doesn't have rivalries as srs as the Northwest Derby? yes  
> 11\. All the numbers in that last paragraph-thing shoould be correct, except for the number of his games: some sites say he played 708 games, some say 710, so idk what the truth is  
> 12\. I apologise for any mistakes I made regarding Liverpool fact-things or emotions or well anything Liverpool that I might have messed up!  
> 13\. The quote from My Story that inspired this: "We even became friends and I understood what Gary Neville meant when we talked about his infamous quote of hating all Scousers. 
> 
> Gary had actually said, of his past in Bury and as a boyhood United fan, ‘I was brought up in my area to hate Scousers.’ He was explaining the conditioning he had experienced – just as I had been raised in Huyton to hate all Mancs." 
> 
> 14\. For Shaz bc I love you v much and you are #1 Scouser, srsly the best writer, unbelievably talented, undeniably fabulous, and thank u for sinning w Beville all those months ago otherwise we'd just have continued to operate in our red/red worlds and I'd never have had my eyes opened to how amazing u are. *insert unholy moji trinity + double daddy for good luck here* LOV U (also look at the number waow coincidence)  
> P.S. this is not stevie/redders fic I kno...that will come later....once I cleanse, sobs


End file.
